Flower In Diary
fingers accost
mildewed bliss,
a derelict text
of must and grime,
hopscotching
like sad sandpipers
through shrouds of frogeye,
clinging
to zests of X,
elations of O,
avoiding shapes like bell jars,
or The Cross.
they pause on a flat insect,
its bluebottle
cerulean guess,
and then six flips later
a trumpet
blares its mane–
petal roaring
on the disintegrative
line:
delicate
yet timeless
touch-me-not,
do not
for i dwell in the desert
of the crucified.
Porn
she’s buoyant like a mermaid
shedding gowns of water.
promises that breathe deep,
paradise without fruit.
our kiss shares a one-sided mouth,
no duet, stuck
between sunray and wet dream.
illusions of slave and pixel.
i shudder together,
pretend to know
nipple, thigh and cleft,
pelvis and thrust.
but only one pulse bares
the tempest of the ache,
no blush fading gentle
on the other side.
Standoff
he lived in a niche of
dusty books next to a vein
of stress-herded cars.
the quiet of his garret
throbbed from the arrhythmia
of stoplight and jump.
for all intents
his studious grind
was an ignored itch,
a tip of pencil lead
broken off from lost times,
faint in the body
of the Pace.
doves lived in
the chimney, lullabied
the hearth.
the desk kept stacks
of outdated words
no one had time to believe.
he would die–someday–
of a heart attack in the same
way that the Pace–someday–
would fail to go on.
side by side, neither
could ever admit
the other mattered.
Ghost Orgy
the fast rage
has shucked off our flesh,
counts our bones to hang them
on a hallelujah sway
of cowed pines.
centrifugal church
that cuts hope with frost,
revelation thick with shrieks,
and guilt that breeds battles
to feast in whirls,
as if sins were snowflakes
whipping each other.
serpent jerks in chains.
outliers of the phantasms
of the gone.
our prayers
jackknife like wishes off broken crystal,
cinders of a lost moon
fierce across a weeping arabesque.
our beseech faceless,
steadily drowned by the hurl
of each others’ plucked fangs.
dethroned.
False Apathy
dust
on chocolate shrubs,
sinks of cracked ocean behind.
the land paralytic,
roils of blur in venomous broth.
any twitch births a chew
of photonic ants.
vultures
like the wrath of hurt pupils,
stalking what they need to despise.
victims lie down anyway,
lulled by a wealth of tricks:
seductive sheens of wet silver,
and honey that beads on straw,
impossible to taste.
clouds
lunge from the blue trapdoor,
as oatmeal dunes blister with petals.
the sun slurps it all down, swift
as Saturn ecstatic, eating his kids.
the ichor bathes sharp hornfels,
pools into sandy quilts,
the fabric restive,
shambling.
BoySlut 